The Aisle of Ashes

I had sworn to myself that I would never walk down this aisle again.

Not after the whispers, the pitying stares, the cruel laughter that followed me for weeks. Not after Damien Callahan had left me stranded in front of hundreds, the veil slipping from my head like a crown I was never meant to wear.

And yet—here I was.

The church smelled of roses and expensive perfume, but beneath it all, I could still sense the faint stench of betrayal. The soft hum of the organ bled into the air, each note like a reminder of the vow I almost made… but never did. My heart thumped hard against my ribs as the doors creaked open.

Everyone rose.

Every eye turned to me.

I wanted to disappear.

But I didn’t. I stepped forward.

The heels clicked against the marble floor, steady but heavy, as if each step carried the weight of my shame. The gown was breathtaking—ivory silk, a lace bodice, a veil that trailed like mist—but I couldn’t shake the thought that I had worn something like this before. That I had stood here before. That I had been humiliated here before.

“Don’t trip,” I muttered under my breath, forcing a smile that felt as brittle as glass.

People whispered anyway. I caught snatches of it.

“Poor girl… I wouldn’t have the courage.”

I kept walking.

And then, I saw him.

Alexander King.

The man everyone called ruthless. The billionaire heir who had an empire built on fear and respect. The man who had forced me into this arrangement when I was still bleeding from my wounds.

He stood at the altar, tall, broad-shouldered, his black tuxedo cut like it was sewn into his skin. His dark eyes locked on me, unblinking, unreadable. No pity. No mockery. No warmth either. Just fire and steel.

For some reason, that steadied me.

I lifted my chin higher, forcing myself not to falter as I reached the midpoint of the aisle. My father’s grip tightened on my arm, firm, supportive, but urgent, as if begging me not to crumble.

“You’re doing well,” he whispered.

I wanted to laugh. Doing well? I was seconds away from collapsing.

The closer I came, the more suffocating it felt. The distance between us shrank, and with it, my breath. I remembered the last time, Damien’s absence, the gasps, the priest clearing his throat awkwardly, my mother’s tears. The world had fallen apart in one instant.

But Alexander wasn’t running.

He stood there, waiting.

And the strangest part? That terrified me more than if he had abandoned me too.

When I reached him, my father placed my hand into his, as tradition demanded. Alexander’s fingers closed around mine, warm, steady, unyielding. A shiver coursed down my spine.

He leaned in, his voice a low murmur only I could hear.

“You look like you’re walking to your execution.”

I stiffened. “Maybe I am.”

His lips curved, just slightly. “Then at least you’ll die as my wife.”

The priest cleared his throat, beginning the ceremony. The words flowed—holy, binding, eternal—but I barely heard them. My pulse roared in my ears. Alexander didn’t look away from me once. His gaze pierced through me like he could see the storm raging beneath my skin.

“Do you, Elena Hart, take Alexander King…”

The words blurred. My throat tightened. I could almost hear Damien’s voice, see his smirk, hear his footsteps fading as he abandoned me. The ghosts of that day clung to me like cobwebs.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.

But when I looked into Alexander’s eyes, something anchored me.

He wasn’t promising love. He wasn’t offering salvation. But he wasn’t going to leave me.

My lips trembled as I whispered, “I do.”

The church sighed, as if the entire room had been holding its breath.

Then it was his turn.

“Do you, Alexander King, take Elena Hart…”

His response came instantly, without hesitation, without a crack in his voice.

“I do.”

The words were sharp, final, like a blade striking the ground.

The rings were exchanged. The vows sealed.

And then—

“You may kiss the bride.”

Time slowed. My pulse hammered. Alexander lifted my veil with deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing my cheek. The room disappeared. For a fleeting second, it was only us.

He didn’t kiss me tenderly.

It wasn’t gentle, or sweet, or forgiving.

It was a claim. Fierce, demanding, unapologetic. A kiss that burned away the whispers, the pity, the memory of Damien Callahan. A kiss that said you are mine now.

When he pulled away, my chest heaved, my lips stung, and my world tilted on its axis.

The church erupted in applause, but I couldn’t hear it.

Because for the first time since Damien shattered me, I realized something chilling—

I wasn’t sure what was more dangerous.

The man who left me at the altar.

Or the man who had just married me.

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